


sick of dancing with the beast

by dogtired



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bisexuality, Depression, Implied Self-Harm, M/M, both are eighteen, eg kenma, implied ed or body dysmorphia, kuroo is emo but good, self-harm scars, some fluff...., transgender character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 04:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtired/pseuds/dogtired
Summary: The white tiles holding a reflection of the sun’s retreat and warmth to the world before she sleeps, orange and living, ready for slumber. That’s something to appreciate, he thinks, trying desperately to hold on to something and quick before he does something stupid. He thinks that could be the only thing he excels at, stupidity, laughs to himself and runs a hand through unruly dark hair, a sad sigh leaving in a significant exhale.





	sick of dancing with the beast

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while,, but i've posted for the first time in nearly a year and hopefully (h o p e f u l l y) i'm here to stay; hope you enjoy ! 
> 
> \- phoebe

His teeth chatter ever so slightly under the sharpness of frost’s presence. It’s never been this cold before, not like this.  
If there’s something he appreciates and hates as an unlikely pairing, it’s the cold. It brings attention to himself and how he is told to survive by instinct- the frost’s nipping-at-ankles- technique that causes the surges of cold to envelop and devour. Kuroo feels like he’s being devoured, chewed, regurgitated and spat out. He feels as if the temperature has a personal vendetta against him which emits a grumble, playing with the litters of dusting snow fall flitting with each kick of his feet across the pavement. He can barely feel his fingers despite being stuffed in the pocket of his long, thrifted and worn jacket. He wants out, of most things honestly, but brings his thoughts to a close as a particular drift makes him outwardly curse and loudly. He’s tired of the way his hands shake though- whether it’s the cold or the nerves, he can never tell.  
He hasn’t washed his hair in two days, or styled it in weeks and he’s clinging to his coat as if it’ll leave him, he hasn’t checked his social media in hours and he’s barely on the move to opening a coffee shop’s translucent door. He feels over exposed everywhere he goes but it’s a feeling he’s somewhat learnt to cope with- despite its exhausting effect. Oh god is he tired- every night, he dreams of waking up refreshed and it never happens. Hence why he isn’t a morning person, he supposes.  
His eyes feel heavy but his heart heavier, only asking for a coffee sparking his flight or fight response…. but he’s six foot one and the girl at the counter looks about sixteen and half his height, and he feels ridiculous. So he stutters for a cappuccino, hands over the right amount and practically pelts it to the door because anxiety is a fiend and surely, not his friend. So he’s outside again, shivering with a far too hot drink in his palm, cold fingers wrapped around the takeaway cup’s seal and inwardly curses his nerves; something he does a lot he notes and notices the icy flakes are increasing and he thinks to himself, ‘it’s only fucking march’, proceeding to burn his tongue and again curses outwardly.

-  
He feels like a stray mongrel dog, a hound of some sort, medium in size and pacing around waiting simply for something to keep on for, waiting for its next bite to satisfy the numbing, aching and dying feeling. The cold weather doesn’t help the feeling but it’s a temperature that seems more like home than the other, the opposite. He’s on the sofa in the living room, at home again, skipping school because he finds it hard to get up in the morning and function and he hates it. Scrolling on his phone, resting the other hand on his clothed stomach covered by an oversized vintage jumper that covers all the edges he hates and he’s never felt so miserable in his whole life. So he closes his eyes and hopes for unconsciousness to take him on a trip that excludes any feeling that stops his brain from thinking. A set of feelings that feel like nothing at all and a sense of relaxation, a snippet of contentment and possibly freedom.  
But he can’t sleep and he hates that right now, he really, really does. There seems to be no distraction right now and he’s forced to face his feelings by wallowing in them and feeling depression eat him alive from the inside out, like maggots to a fresh corpse, decaying deep and down in the dirt.

-  
Bathroom lighting in the evening is a contrast. The white tiles holding a reflection of the sun’s retreat and warmth to the world before she sleeps, orange and living, ready for slumber. That’s something to appreciate, he thinks, trying desperately to hold on to something and quick before he does something stupid. He thinks that could be the only thing he excels at, stupidity, laughs to himself and runs a hand through unruly dark hair, a sad sigh leaving in a significant exhale. He’s definitely feeling like that hybrid hound again.  
He reaches for his mobile and goes back to binging playlists that are to remind his self he could be worth something more than he appears, that he could be more than that sad, sad soul he seems to be these days and runs his cold palms on his face, watching it distort in the mirror as he momentarily massages the stressed muscles in his tired cheeks, under his deep hollowed eyes.  
He looks deeper at those- his eyes. They hold a lot and nothing simultaneously and they are ever so deep and dark. He remembers his mother holding his small hand as a boy, looking at him and smiling lovingly, searching for something and quietly exclaiming that he had ‘little wolf eyes’ and he looks deeper in the mirror, searching for the spark, has the wolf grown? Did his eyes lose that wolf’s pride? Or has the wolf cub grown into the stray hound? He feels he knows the answer and doesn’t find any comfort in that.

-  
He’s back in school, back in lesson, looking longingly into the trees outside from his window. He should be concentrating, he’s been absent but he can’t help but feel his mind wonder and go, drift. It’s only when Kenma jabs him hard in his ribcage that the gravity of reality comes crashing down. He looks over into the amber eyes of his childhood friend and boyfriend of two years, Kuroo is proud to announce, sees the stare he knows all too well and is instantly grounded to a place that feels a little more like home. That’s the best way to describe Kenma, he thinks and stretches out his long limbs, his arms elongating across the desk, over his papers and feels Kenma scowling at him in a way that he hopes holds some love. He looks over from his flattened position; Kenma concentrating and listening and Kuroo thinks it’s the best sight he’s seen in days as soppy as it is.  
“What?” ah. Fuck. The smaller man is staring at him; his tone holds no malice but maybe a hint of impatience and it’s nothing new but still holds a sting of some sort. “I’m sleep-deprived,” Kuroo mumbles, “and tired and haven’t seen you in two days, so I’m… trying to familiarize.” Truth be told, he’s trying to find a reason to stare and just lose himself a little because he feels overwhelmed by the classroom already; that makes him feel really quite pathetic. The bottle blonde just accepts and moves on, gentle movements, much smaller in size sitting next to Kuroo but just as strong in his own right.  
There’s something that draws him to the smaller; it’s been there since the first day he laid eyes on him. Many years ago, a child in the playground, alone; long strands of straight dark hair, a puffy pink coat and a blank stare, fearful eyes made distant, his mother talking to his own and Kuroo observing gingerly behind his mother’s waist. Curious. It was revealed to Kuroo that the boy had moved in with his mother in the neighbourhood and that they were trying to socialise in the area- the small child looked resentful and scowled more than any other expression he made. Even as a child Kuroo registered that expression as fear or an emotion deep, unrecognisable - he wanted instantly to explore, there had to be more to him. That feeling stayed, to protect. It stayed even when it took weeks for Kenma to talk to him, even when he was convinced Kenma hated him. It ingrained.

-  
He sinks down into his chair and sighs, and waits patiently for some kind of settlement in his brain, as it continues to keep ticking and ticking.  
“Kuroo...”  
His head snaps up from staring at his illegible hand-writing and almost strains a tendon in his neck in the process.  
There’s a quiet limbo and a hesitance before a, “Can I come to yours sometime soon?”  
The taller notes a pink dusting on the blonde’s cheeks, a shine of embarrassment that reminds him of flowers, like roses maybe, the pink kind. He’s convinced its Kenma’s natural bashfulness and general inability to ask for what he really needs that brings the deeper tone on his cheeks but there’s a thought that Kuroo always pushes back. He can’t think of them, the two of them, like that, not now Jesus Christ.

 

-  
Four years earlier, there’s drizzle and soft lights as a small amount of cars drive by quickly, the sun going down and the air cooling. Little shelter but enough to hold the roof over the two boys’ heads, the rain littering barely at their toes. He remembers little of the small-talk but much of the subject it turned to; the air’s sharp bite and Kenma’s glassy eyes, watered and red, sobbing into Kuroo’s uniform, choking on tears. That was the night Kuroo was genuinely afraid for his closest friend. He knew little of his troubles, only snippets of knowledge would click, Kenma’s secretive behaviour’s keeping his feelings locked away- to see the smaller like that could have broken his heart. It did break his heart a little but he knew he couldn’t just fall apart, he knew this is where maybe; just maybe he could be of some use to his friend.  
With a heavy, compromised sigh the blonde that evening shared that he couldn’t take it anymore and Kuroo hesitated to ask what he meant. Riled up his emotions and succeeded to whisper such a questioned to which Kenma shuddered and told him he wasn’t a girl. Kuroo, at fourteen, looked at him all curled up in his chest and sighed heavily, “I know that.”

-

It’s night, a two day streak of being in classes and he’s got his hand tracing the curves of his face, fingers tracing the flesh that moves under the tips and contorts- glides with him and stops at the edge of his chin. He plays with the stubble, feels it prickle, more stubborn than skin and less eager to move but pushed aside nevertheless, he decides that he should shave…soon. He groans and moves his palms to push them against his eye sockets, digits curled to his forehead ruffling his dark hair, the tops of his hands resting upon his brow bone. He can’t help but just think and think, dwell, concern and worry- he laughs to himself in a morbid dark humour which he is renowned for, ‘I’m gonna die young.’ Pulling his low cut shirt over this head and flinging it across his room, a grunt here and there, a stretch and a another groan. He’s restless and starts to think of Kenma- it doesn’t help. Sheets curled around the smaller’s form, when Kuroo wraps his arm around him, the way his spine dips, trusting that he’ll keep him afloat. He hopes that Kenma finds comfort in him, that’s never one to betray. He slides his large, slender hard from his protruding collarbone to his shoulder, down his upper arm feeling the bumpy, white and pink skin, scarred never to disappear but sometime fade. He feels the marks of self-hatred, habitual self- inflicted wounds and wishes it to no one. His thoughts of the blonde tracing his smaller, softer hand over the, what Kuroo calls ugly skin, and how he’s just accepting; never approving or condoning, always there but not judging. It won’t solve Kuroo’s problems, that’s for sure but it helps to heal, the small things. He hopes he can heal Kenma the same way he does for him; he hopes he is enough because he knows how it feels to be judged, ostracised. So he hums and closes his eyes and in his agnostic brain, prays for Kenma’s forever happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> i plan to continue the story, i have some plans for where this could go.
> 
> the title is from the song 'Tokyo- Vampires & Wolves' by The Wombats. if you couldn't tell, i listened to my usual sad tunes while writing this other than the latter song, but hope you enjoyed regardless. it's a short chapter for sure but hopefully it's enough !


End file.
